


Hinder-Them Holmes

by breathesomeday



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Wreck-It Ralph Fusion
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gaming!AU, M/M, Sherlock AU, Wreck-It Ralph!AU, sherlocksecretsanta, so many characters appearing here-there-and-everywhere, this fic comes with angst and fluff and feels awwyeaa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathesomeday/pseuds/breathesomeday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m a bad guy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hinder-Them Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetlittlekitty](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sweetlittlekitty).



> This is my fic for the very awesome [sweetlittlekitty](http://sweetlittlekitty.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for the [sherlocksecretsanta](http://sherlocksecretsanta.tumblr.com//)!
> 
> I chose to write SLK a fic based on Wreck-It Ralph, but this fic should be readable as a stand-alone without having seen the movie I think (since my beta understood it without!)
> 
> And whilst I'm on the subject of betaing I'd like to give a MASSIVE thanks to my wonderful beta [withoutawish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutawish/pseuds/withoutawish/) who has cheered me on these last 4 days in writing what is an absolute _mammoth_ of a fic (for me at least! It's the longest I've ever wrote!) and if you do at this point find any errors then blame them all on me since I've been a terribly busy-bee recently and typed this fic up ridiculously last minute haha!
> 
> Anyway I'll stop waffling on now, Merry Christmas everyone and I hope you all enjoy this fic! :)

_In the world of gaming, it’s the good guys that get all of the attention, the good guys that get all of the appreciation, and the good guys who get all of the love._

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m a bad guy.”

_This story is not about the good guys. This story is about Sherlock Holmes, better known as Hinder-Them Holmes._

“Hm, let’s see…I’m 6 feet tall, and I weigh around 12 stone (that’s 174lbs for you Imperial unit users). It has been said that I ‘have a little bit of a temper on me’; I argue that my passion bubbles very near to the surface…Anywho what else? I ‘hinder’ things professionally; I basically create problems for ‘The Yarders’ to solve. I’m very good at what I do, unlike them.”

“What…? ‘Hinder’? What’s wrong with that? Look – it was either ‘Hinder-Them Holmes’ or ‘Stop-Them Sherlock’ and the latter was far too pedestrian. Anyway, I’d much rather it be Solve-It Sherlock, I’m not going to lie. But of course I’m the bad guy, and a name like that was made for the hero, right? Because ‘solving’ is the name of the game, literally; ‘Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade’.”

“So naturally, the guy with the name ‘Let’s-Solve It Lestrade’ is the good guy; and everyone thinks he solves thing very well…But if you get every clue you need from me; how hard can it be? If he were left to solve my cases on his own; I _guarantee_ you he would not be able to solve them as quickly as I create them.”

“When Lestrade solves cases he gets hearts for saving people’s lives from danger and the criminals that lurk in the dark corners of our coding – but are there any hearts for coming up with the mysteries and crimes that make up the game? To that – I say _HA_! …And no, there aren’t.”

“30 Years I’ve been doing this, and I’ve seen a lot of games come and go. And in that time I’ve came up with a lot of great puzzles, mysteries and cases for The Yarders to solve; in fact, my coding is the sole reason why Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade has had so many expansion packs installed over the past three decades. Oh, and don’t misinterpret what I’m saying – a steady arcade gig is nothing to sneeze at, but it becomes very hard to love your job when no-one appreciates your genius, or likes you, for doing it.”

“I don’t know…Maybe I wouldn’t, ahem, _feel_ this way if things weren’t like this after work. But of course, they aren’t. I’d just like a little recognition for my genius, understand?”

A chorus of “mhmm”s and “of course”s and “totally”s rang out from around the circle of bad guys. It was the weekly Bad-Anon meeting of Mrs. Hudson’s Baker Street Arcade Games’ bad guys; and today marked Sherlock Holmes’ first ever appearance. Every villainous character from Doctor Robotnik (or Eggman) to Bowser were seated at the meeting who’s slogan was “One Game at a Time”.

It was at this point, the end of Sherlock’s very relatable confession, that the group’s session leader Golem – a very tall and Nosferatu-esque looking set of pixels from the hit game _London’s Assassins_ – intervened to further the discussion, “Nice share, Sherlock. We’ve all felt what you’re feeling here…and, we’ve come to terms with it. But I have a question – we’ve been asking you to Bad-Anon for years now and tonight you finally show up, why is that?”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his small metal chair for a moment, before replying in an unusually truthful manner once more, “Well, I suppose it has something to do with the fact that today is the 30th anniversary of my game.”

Jefferson Hope, the murderous cabbie from _Taxi Rush_ , slapped Sherlock on the back, “well! Congratulations mate, Happy Anniversary!”

Sherlock sighed, “Thanks Jeff. But, well, here’s the thing – I don’t want to be the bad guy anymore.”

At this, the entire group broke out into a cacophony of gasps and disbelieving proclamations of “you can’t mess with the programme Sherlock!” and “you aren’t going _turbo_ , are you!?”

Another member, Soo Lin Yao, added fiercely, “you know what going turbo does Sherlock! Look at my game, _Black Lotus_ ; our humble Chinese fighting game was shut down because that wretched _Moriarty_ just couldn’t be content winning races in _Reichenbach Racers_. He left his game to get more attention in our newer, more popular game and his game was declared Out of Order as a result. And they saw him prancing around like some kind of Irish Queen in our versus battles and assumed we were glitched too – now thanks to him _both_ of our games are unplugged.”

Sherlock scoffed and rebuffed these assertions, “Yes, Soo Lin, I heard about that but no, I am _not_ going ‘turbo’.” At this he received many unconvinced stares, “…oh come on – is it ‘turbo’ to want a little appreciation? Is it ‘turbo’ to want to be some kind of consulting detective for The Yarders rather than a consulting criminal? Is it ‘turbo’ to want more out of life?”

“Yeesssss,” groaned a zombie that was nestled within the group.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in derision and was just about to reel off a string of harsh deductions about the irony of a zombie claiming to have a ‘life’ when Golem cut in, “Sherlock, Sherlock we get it. But you can’t mess with the programme – you can’t go turbo, and you can’t change who you are. The sooner you accept the better off your game and your life will be.”

“One game at a time, eh Sherlock,” added Jefferson to which Sherlock shot him an insincere smile.

“Now let’s close with the bad guy affirmation,” said Golem with a tone of finality.

The group stood up, joined hands, closed their eyes and took a moment for themselves – Sherlock stood scowling the entire time; coming here was a mistake, he felt no better about his current situation at all. How all of these other bad guys put up with their games by meeting here once a week and chanting some stupid mantra was beyond him, and– _ah, here it comes now_.

_“I’m bad and that’s good; I will never be good and that’s not bad. There’s no one I’d rather be than me.”_

 

*****

Sherlock stepped off the small blue Pac-Man themed monorail cart that had brought the group of bad guys away from Golem’s small dark meeting room in the planetarium to Platform 13 of Game Central Station.

Game Central Station existed within the power pack connecting every game in the arcade; it was a vast, grand, and predominantly white station with Platforms leading back to each game. Here characters from every planet, world, and definition could congregate and travel around after closing hours at their respective jobs.

As Sherlock passed through the golden arches of Platform 13 and into the main connecting hall of the station, the scanners flashed red and a small blue hologram known as Sergeant Dimmock appeared.

“Step aside sir, random security check.”

“Random of _course_ ,” Sherlock snarled. “You always stop me.”

“I’m just a search protector doing my job sir.” He pulled out a small notepad as he spoke, “name.”

“Miss Marple.”

“ _Name_.”

“Ugh, Hinder-Them Holmes.”

“And where are you coming from?”

“London’s Assassins.”

The sergeant paused, “did you bring any herbal soothers back with you?”

Sherlock scoffed, “no, I did _not_ bring any ‘herbal soothers’ back with me – I’m clean. Any scan will tell you that.”

Dimmock peeled his eyes away from his form once to give Sherlock a put upon look, “Ok then. Where are you heading?”

“Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade.”

“Anything to declare?”

“Piss off.”

“I get that a lot. Proceed.”

The hologram quickly disappeared accented by a small pinging noise, and Sherlock began to head over to his game’s platform. As he walked along small creatures, and innocent looking background characters gasped in fear at his presence and went running – usually squeaking something along the lines of “watch out! Bad guy coming!” Sherlock rolled his eyes at their plainness upon sighting a bad guy, but paid them no more attention than necessary – this was his norm, after all.

As Sherlock passed through his game’s gate, Sonic the Hedgehog’s ESRB-PEGI-USK-Approved message began playing in the background from one of the station’s many animated advertisement boards for what must have been the millionth time, “if you leave your game; stay safe, stay alert, and whatever you do – _don’t die_.”

And as he boarded the monorail cart that would lead him back into his working world, the final part of Sonic’s warning rang out ominously in the distance, “because if you die outside of your own game, you don’t regenerate. That’s it. Game over.”

 

 *****

When Sherlock returned to his game it was to sounds of fireworks exploding and to the sight of a huge, colourful display stating “WE <3 U LESTRADE” – in fact, upon closer inspection, Sherlock could see the projections of “Happy 30th Anniversary” glowing tall and proud upon several of the walls within The Yarders’ main Head Quarters. And an even closer inspection would reveal to Sherlock that there was a multitude of in-game heroes mulling about inside the building, celebrating the game that he had put 30 years’ worth of hard work into making successful, challenging, and quite obviously, fun.

So, it was no surprise really that, with a flick-up of his collar and a dramatic swish of his long blue coat, Sherlock stormed up to Lestrade’s party to join in on the celebrations.

Inside the party Lestrade was in the middle of a well-choreographed dance along to Kool & The Gang’s _Celebration_ when he heard the tell-tale chime of the HQ’s door alerting him to the arrival of a new guest.

“That must be Mario – fashionably late per the norm,” Lestrade chuckled as one of The Yarders, Sally Donovan, headed towards the door to answer it.

Upon opening the door, Sally promptly threw it shut again – right in the new arrival’s face.

“…Who’s there, Sally?” Lestrade asked, frowning at her abrupt (and frankly un-heroinely) behaviour.

“It’s the freak, Detective Inspector,” Sally hissed.

“What? Holmes is here? Oh great, he’ll ruin the party and scare half of the guests away before we can even count to 10,” added Anderson – one of the grumpiest members of the team, who also happened to be responsible for the Forensics mini-challenges within Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade. He and Sherlock had never gotten on; not since Sherlock had altered his coding to decrease his IQ stats every time he spoke during one of the newer mini-challenges.

“Get rid of him Lestrade,” Sally demanded, folding her arms and glaring at him expectantly as she stepped back from the door.

“…Uh right, I’ll go talk to him,” Lestrade mumbled as he pushed past Sally to go outside.

Lestrade poked his head outside of the door and glanced up at Sherlock, who was significantly taller than his 5” frame (all of The Yarders were pushed for height; it was just a part of their code).

“Sherlock – can I, uh, help you?” He asked hesitantly.

“Yes, you can actually Lestrade,” Sherlock replied in an uncharacteristically pleasant tone. “You see, I heard some loud explosions as I was returning from Game Central Station and was worried about what could possibly be going on here without me around to make it happen.”

The Detective Inspector scratched the back of his head as he responded in what he hoped was a flippant tone of voice, “Oh _, those_ were just fireworks.”

“Ah, fireworks,” Sherlock replied, trying to sound unconcerned before adding, “What’s the occasion? A birthday or…?”

Lestrade squirmed uncomfortably as he answered Sherlock's question, “…uhm…well more of an, uh, anniversary – the uh, 30th anniversary of our game, actually.”

“What! Is that _today_?” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his arms up in feigned-surprise (he could be quite an exceptional actor when he needed to be – most bad guys are, as it happens), “I am terrible with dates. Time just escapes me when I’m not working on a case. Well, congratulations.”

Lestrade laughed in a strained manner for a moment before adding, “Thank you Sherlock, and congratulations to you too.”

Sherlock fixed him with one of his best fake smiles before a horrendously awkward silence descended on the two. Lestrade tried his best to just keep smiling at Sherlock as he internally panicked and attempted think of a way to excuse himself and re-enter the party without seeming rude, but he was more than aware of how good Sherlock was at deducing people’s emotions. And really, this did nothing but make the situation all the more uncomfortable for him.

Just as Lestrade went to open his mouth to spurt out some kind of terrible excuse, the door to the Head Quarters reopened and Anderson stuck his head out.

He gave Sherlock his most impassive stare as he announced to Lestrade, “Just letting you know they’re bringing the cake out in a few minutes, Lestrade.”

Sherlock smiled condescendingly back at Lestrade’s team member, “Hello, Anderson.”

“Freak,” nodded Anderson before forcibly slamming the door closed again, causing Lestrade to visibly flinch.

Ignoring Anderson’s hissy fit, Sherlock set about guilt tripping the Detective Inspector. “Cake, huh? I do enjoy a slice from time to time – it rarely comes along when you’re the bad guy; forever busy with preparing the next day’s cases, although you wouldn’t know that being who you are and all. It would be quite nice I think, if I could have some of that cake. Just to celebrate some of my more complex cases; like the one involving the Speckled Band or the one I created last week with the five Orange Pips. It would be appropriate for me to have a little cake at any rate, what with it being our anniversary and all.”

Lestrade shuffled uneasily where he was standing as he met Sherlock’s now pleading blue-grey eyes, “You wouldn’t, uh, like to come in for a slice would you?”

And this was how Sherlock Holmes was invited into the Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade 30th Anniversary party, without any prior invitation, and much to the chagrin of every other attendee present.

Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and waltzed into the HQ, and instantly began tearing apart every other member of the party, as usual.

“Ah Sally, I see you and Anderson are still engaging in activities far above a PG13 rating.”

“Why on earth is he in here!?” Anderson snarled, “Lestrade??”

Lestrade shuffled in gawkily, “he’s just here for a slice of cake – that’s all.”

But Sherlock didn’t stop there, “And Anderson! I can still feel a blue-screen coming on every time you talk, how pleasant. But yes, I am in fact here for a slice of cake. Since, oh you know, I am a large part of the game, technically speaking.”

Just as he was getting into the swing of rebuffing Anderson however, and had swayed through the large crowd of party-goers that were gathered at the door, he stopped short as he spotted the celebratory cake. And who was standing by it.

“Mycroft.”

“Ah, little brother – how _nice_ to see you.”

I should explain here, that Sherlock and Mycroft were about as related as two pixelated characters could be – although neither liked to admit it. They were both born from the same code, you see, as their games were products of the same developer, _221b Games_ – who had gotten a little lazy in the character design department during the creation of _Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade_ and _Cake Wars_. The two Holmes brothers were both extraordinary at creating tasks and puzzles for gamers to solve; the only difference between the two being that whilst Sherlock very much so specialised in the macabre, Mycroft specialised in cake. Unfortunately, the problem present when one has exceptional intelligence and a great understanding of everything’s individual component parts is that one often tends to dislike others who can give their smarts a run for their money. One tends to dislike others even-more-so when they see the other’s coding and intelligence as being put entirely to the wrong uses.

“Still baking _cakes_ I see.”

“Still _hindering_ good things, I see.”

At this point something in Sherlock snapped, and he spun around in a fit of rage (it has been said that he has a temper, after all) to give Lestrade a piece of his mind.

“Just what do you call _this_ Lestrade? You can have a bona fide, useful, and most-importantly _in game_ character present at your game’s anniversary party – and yet you elect to invite _him_ ,” Sherlock spat, jabbing an accusatory finger at Mycroft, “nothing more than a cheap, cake-making waste of code instead!?”

At this point Donovan cut in, “and what makes you think we wanted anyone like _you_ at this party, freak? Mycroft is good at making cakes – which is why he was invited. In fact, Mycroft is _good_ which is a damn sight more than what you are.”

Sherlock snarled at this, “I’ll have you know that I could be good at the drop of a hat – I can do anything when I put my mind to it; unlike you brainless _idiots_.”

Mycroft merely stood back with a self-satisfied smile in place as this happened, and Lestrade looked visibly more and more unnerved as the argument continued and Anderson joined in.

“Oh you could be good, could you? That’s hilarious!” He jibed.

“Look, without me this game would be nothing. I deserve those hearts and some recognition _just as much_ as Lestrade does!”

Sally let out an abrupt laugh, “You d _eserve_ those hearts do you, freak? What a joke. Lestrade earns each and every one of those hearts through his hard work. A psychopath like you _has_ no heart – you could never get _one_ , let alone as many as Lestrade’s gained over the past 30 years.” Anderson nodded in agreement.

“We bad guys tend to be called _High Functioning Sociopaths_ these days, please get up-to-date with your gaming-psychology terminology Sally. And so what if I wasn’t coded with a ‘heart’? I’m _more_ than capable of getting one.” Sherlock retorted before adding sarcastically, “I don’t suppose if I manage to get one I’ll finally be worthy of your oh-so-highly-desired respect, now then will I? Sally? Anderson?”

To his surprise, the two exchanged a look before Anderson answered, “Well, yes, actually. Since hearts are something _only_ heroes can get. If you got one then you’d certainly be worth a second glance, in our opinion.”

“Besides, it’s not like you’ll ever manage to get a heart outside of this game – your coding here is the only thing that makes you smart, and you can never be anything but a bad guy in _this_ game.”

Sherlock scoffed at Sally’s utter idiocy, and as he left he called back, “Oh please Sally you wouldn’t know what makes a character smart if a programmer came along and spelt it out for you in plain C++. And you know what? I _will_ get that heart, and I _will_ prove you ALL wrong.”

But Sally and Anderson only rolled their eyes before yelling back in unison, “We’d like to see you try!”

And _this_ , ladies and gentlemen, was how Sherlock Holmes came to the decision to leave his game in search of a heart and to prove that _he_ could be the good guy for a change.

 

*****

The first thing Sherlock decided to do was visit his old acquaintance Mike Stamford, whom was always of great help in locating things; it’s in his code you see, Mike’s duty within his game _Medical Mission_ is to find his patients’ life-threatening viruses and diseases and to eliminate them. Luckily, this talent carries over to simply finding anything in general. Sherlock was positive that this, combined with his medical expertise, would make finding a heart child’s play.

Our wannabe-detective’s initial worry was that he wouldn’t be able to find Mike’s game anymore – since he spent the majority of his time outside of other games these days; interacting with other heroes and villains was just plain tiresome 90% of the time. This worry didn’t last long however, as almost as soon as Sherlock had stepped out of _Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade’s_ platform and into Game Central Station – an emergency ambulance-pod went whizzing past him and into Platform 3’s entryway.

Sherlock nodded once, and quickly followed the high-tech flying vehicle into what one would certainly consider a very high-dimension game as he muttered to himself, “that’ll be for Stamford, then.”

 _Medical Mission_ is a fairly straightforward game, but it had obviously had a few expansion packs since Sherlock’s last visit. Whereas the game used to simply feature an old-tattered medical base where swarms of Cy-Bugs and other horrid viruses would attack the residing staff and patients, a large hospital by the name of St. Bartholomew’s now stood proudly.

The emergency ambulance-pod had just come to a stop and was now hovering outside of the building’s automatic doors. Sherlock could just about make out the figure of Mike, as plump and robust looking as ever, dashing inside alongside a First Person Shooter.

For a brief moment Sherlock considered the potential implications of rushing into a game that someone in the arcade was currently playing, _‘If you die outside your own game, you don’t regenerate. That’s it. Game over.’_ , but decided it would take an utter imbecile to die within Mike’s game and promptly followed the two into the building.

When he got inside through the doors of the hospital however, there was no sign of Mike and his FPS at all. In fact, there wasn’t a single sign of anyone – perhaps the game commenced on a different level and they’d been teleported there?

Deciding he had no time to sit about and simply wait and see, Sherlock pressed the button for the elevators at the end of the hall – just past the deserted receptionist desk. The current floor that the elevator was on when he hit the small blue button was the Basement level, so he opted to search there first when the lift arrived for him.

A tediously average soundtrack was playing as the elevator moved downwards and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder what else had changed about this game since he was last there – the soundtrack he was used to hearing in this game involved a lot of electronica.

The door’s opened and Sherlock was treated to the sight of a morgue with a small, mousy brown-haired woman occupying it. She appeared to be in the middle of a dissection of a cadaver.

Sherlock was immediately fascinated.

“And just who are you?” He asked, as he pushed open the clear glass doors to the morgue and stepped inside, “and just what exactly are you doing with that murder victim?”

The poor unassuming woman almost jumped out of her skin in surprise, and she almost definitely let out some kind of strange strangled squeaking noise at the same time.

“I-I’m Molly, Molly Hooper. Who on Earth are y-you? And why are you in my morgue?” She asked quickly, her voice getting higher pitched and less audible as she went along.

Sherlock clucked, “Molly the Mortician in Medical Mission – your developers _really_ like their alliteration now then don’t they?”

Molly just stared back at him wide-eyed, until he raised an expectant eyebrow at her.

“O-oh, uhm, yes. I suppose they do.”

“Quite. Sherlock Holmes.”

“W-what?”

“To answer your earlier question, I’m Sherlock Holmes – or Hinder-Them Holmes, as I’m better known. And I’m here to find something, but I think perhaps first you should answer _my_ question.”

Molly faltered, “Your question?”

“Yes, I did ask _why_ exactly you have a _murder_ victim on your counter. Last I checked, this game involved a whole lot of viruses and disease – but no murder.”

The mortician looked like a deer caught in headlights, and her eyes darted around the room as she attempted to answer his question.

“T-this was a _murder_?” She gulped, “I h-had no idea. I’ve been trying to figure it out all morning. None of the kids who have played so far have passed this level.”

“So you’re a level in the game now?” Sherlock questioned.

“I’m the bonus round,” Molly stated, “Once the First Person Shooter helps Mike to eradicate the Cy-Bugs, they get sent to me for a quick respite between rounds. They diagnose the cause of death of the patient and move on.”

Sherlock hummed, “That’s an interesting expansion pack.”

“I like to think so,” smiled Molly, before adding, “but this body came with our newest update – and I just can’t figure it out…How do you know it’s a murder?”

At this, Sherlock grinned – a mad, almost Cheshire like grin – his genius _could_ be applied to any game, Sally was wrong.

“It’s quite simple really. The exit wound on his torso – it’s obviously friendly fire. The angle of entry, and residue left behind from the ammo could tell you that.”

“…Really?” Molly asked in awe.

“Yes, it’ll be some kind of programming glitch with one of the game’s extras. I imagine it’ll be fixed with a patch shortly though.” Sherlock affirmed, and then added almost as an afterthought, “then you’ll have your morgue all back to normal.”

Molly smiled thankfully at him before apparently just remembering that Sherlock was a stranger in her game, “Oh yes! And why are you here again – now that we’ve settled that and all.”

The dark haired genius pulled out his trusty mobile phone and held it up to Molly; on the screen was an image of one of the many hearts that Lestrade won on a daily basis.

“I’m looking for one of these; I was hoping Mike could help me find it. But since he isn’t around, you’ll suffice.”

For a brief moment Molly seemed somewhat hurt by his comments (higher-resolution characters are _always_ much easier to read – they’re far more visibly expressive) but she then refocused on the task at hand.

“It’s easy to get one of those – here,” she said as she typed something into the small keypad attached to her belt, “Allow me.”

Once she had completed her entry, a small hologram stating “C.O.D.: F-R-I-E-N-D-L-Y_F-I-R-E” appeared and Molly seemed to hold her breath. Suddenly, the text exploded into array of colours and the word “CORRECT!” flourished before them to which Molly then proceeded to hold out her arms expectantly. And that’s when it happened – a heart, much like the ones Lestrade earned for solving one of his cases, fabricated before them and landed happily in Molly’s cupped hands.

“Here you go, Mr. Holmes. It’s the least that I can do for your help.”

Sherlock looked at Molly for a moment as though she had grown two heads – no one ever just _gave_ him something for helping; no one ever _appreciated_ what he did.

“I- thank you, Molly.” Sherlock said as she handed the heart over to him. It was slim, bright red, angular, smooth _and_ cold to the touch, but also most certainly one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. And the high-definition of Molly’s game just served to make it all the more beautiful.

Strangely enough, despite it’s cold touch, the instant Sherlock took a hold of the heart he felt much warmer inside – hearts were _quite_ confusing business, it would seem. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the new _feelings_ that came with having a heart in his possession – things no longer seemed quite as grim as before, which was rather a pleasant surprise.

It wasn’t until he noticed the beaming smile on Molly’s face that he realised he too had been smiling at her, and really, genuinely smiling at that. 

Sherlock noted that Molly never asked him why he needed the heart, or why someone with the in-game name “Hinder-Them Holmes” would even _want_ one in the first place. She merely waved him off as he went on his way and replied, “You’re very welcome Sherlock. Come back any time.”

What Sherlock failed to note was that, like Mike, Molly was exceptionally talented at seeing things. And in Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper saw an awful lot of good.

 

*****

Armed with exactly what he needed, Sherlock stepped confidently out of the hospital elevator and onto the ground floor – ready to make his exit and triumphant return to his game. Inside of his mind palace (…what? His mind was a very respectable and well-organised place to be, I’ll have you know.) he was already rearranging his code to prepare himself for the onslaught of congratulations, and snivelling apologies from the likes of Sally and Anderson that he was about to receive.

He was not preparing himself however, for what he was greeted with in the hospital reception; there he found Mike and his previous FPS firing at countless Cy-Bugs that had taken to sieging the hospital – one floor at a time (though obviously, thanks to the game’s coding, Molly’s floor would always remain untouched). There was a loud and frankly insane electronic musical number playing in the background (which was what Sherlock would discover at a _much_ later date was known as dubstep) and Mike was roaring, “IT’S MAKE YOUR MOMMAS PROUD TIME!” at his First Person Shooter.

Sherlock groaned; he _really_ did not have time for this if the arcade was open to the public – his game needed him, as much as he sometimes wished it didn’t. The wannabe-detective slipped his heart safely into the pocket of his suit jacket, and made to leave through an emergency exit side-door.

Before he could make a sneaky exit however, Mike was on his case – tossing one of his large, overpowered guns in his direction and yelling, “Sherlock! What on Earth are you doing here!? Quick, grab a gun, keep the FPS safe, and for God’s Sake _don’t die_!”

 

 *****

Back at Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade, a coin had been placed within their arcade game and the screen burst to life. Lestrade and the rest of The Yarders were in their positions – prepared and ready for today’s randomly generated and original (I told you Sherlock was respectable) case.

When Lestrade bellowed out, “And this will be that no-good Hinder-Them Holmes here with another one of his cases – ready to bloody _hinder_ us and all who want peace and goodness in the world!!” however, nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

Sherlock would typically have some kind of clichéd villainous catchphrase to yell, before he would reel off into a long and complex introduction to his case that the player would then have to uncover clues about.

But nothing happened. Sherlock wasn’t there.

“ _What’s happening_?” Sally hissed from her position outside of The Yarders’ HQ.

Lestrade glanced over at her uneasily and whispered back, “ _Sherlock’s gone_.”

As the player began to move Lestrade about aimlessly, looking for clues that did not exist for a case that had yet to be created, Anderson gasped, “You mean he’s gone TURBO!? Oh god this is going to be like when Moriarty left _Reichenbach Racers_ all over again!”

“ _Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,_ ” the entire force growled back at him.

Anderson paused momentarily and resumed his stereotypical position within the game before adding, “What are we going to do? We’ll be shut down if they notice this and take it as a glitch!”

Lestrade sighed sadly as the game’s timer counted-down to zero and the words “GAME OVER” flashed boldly on the screen – much to the disappointment of the confused child who had been playing.

“I think it’s too late for that, we’re already appearing glitched.”

“Well what are we going to do?” Sally shrieked, spinning wildly round to face him now that they weren’t being scrutinised by the general public.

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything; _I_ am going to go and find that nutter and bring him back here.”

 

*****

Sherlock had never been one for guns – he found them base and unnecessary; violence really wasn’t relevant when one could simply outsmart their opponent. And so when a Cy-Bug reared its ugly head right before him, he simply smacked it in the face in the hopes of stunning it.

“What are you _doing_ Sherlock – kill that thing _now_!” Mike bellowed as he blasted one of the larger members of the swarm currently infecting their base, its guts bursting into a million tiny pixels before their eyes.

The Cy-Bug paused in confusion as Sherlock responded, “but these things are _fascinating_ Mike – I can only imagine the sort of things I could uncover from them through some proper experimentation!”

This is another thing I should have mentioned; Sherlock Holmes has always been one for investigation and experimentation. Like any keen-coded scientific mind, Sherlock firmly believed in researching the unknown in order to come up with all kinds of new and ingenious ways to fool The Yarders and to challenge his game’s players.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the Cy-Bug had anything _but_ being the subject of experimentation on its mind as it flew at him and attached itself to his head.

“Blerhgdfkh!” Sherlock gasped as he stumbled backwards and out of the hospital’s entrance where an emergency ambulance-pod sat hovering and waiting.

“Sherlock!” Mike yelled, trying to reach the wannabe-detective – if he died in this game that would be it – Sherlock’s code would turn to nothing but particles in cyber space. But his game glitched horribly at that very moment, and the First Person Shooter fired a powerful ray directly into Mike’s back; putting an end to his one remaining life through Friendly Fire. _Medical Mission_ ’s developers _really_ had to patch that problem.

Sherlock flailed in horror as he watched Mike fall flat to the ground (in a decidedly more dramatic death-sequence than his game offered) and fell into the piloting seat of the ambulance-pod as he desperately tried to remove the Cy-Bug’s crawling legs from around his skull.

The fall into the driver’s seat sent Sherlock completely off-kilter, and he splayed his arms out in an attempt to regain his posture. He really was beginning to panic now – death by Cy-Bug was seriously not how he had intended to go.

“ _Could ANYTHING else POSSIBLY go wrong_!?” He screeched – his voice ever so slightly muffled from his position beneath the Cy-Bug’s clutches. This really was getting _beyond_ tiresome, although it was far from being dull and/or boring.

Regrettably for Sherlock his troubles were _not_ quite over yet; he had landed in the pod the wrong way around, and as the hatch to the emergency ambulance-pod sealed both him and the Cy-Bug inside, his hand fell upon the glowing red “ESCAPE WORLD” button located on the front controls which sent the pod whirring out of _Medical Mission_ and away from Stamford’s now lifeless form.

 

*****

A common rule about escape pods is that they tend to have to be steered, which was obviously somewhat of an inconvenience for Sherlock at the moment. After all, steering wasn’t the easiest thing to do when seated backwards with a Cy-Bug clawing at your face. And so this was how one of _Medical Mission_ ’s Emergency Ambulance-Pods came to fly all-around Baker Street Arcade’s Game Central Station one lazy afternoon – much to the dismay of those who were mulling about in the main hall at the time.

Sherlock and the Cy-Bug glided past Dimmock and his security check, knocked over one of the many animated advertisement boards and sent Sonic crashing to the ground as a result, and bounced off the walls like a ping-pong ball in the midst of a particularly heated game. Sherlock would never notice any of this damage however as he was too busy screaming bloody murder at the living virus on his head.

The pod eventually found itself jetting past Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade’s gate, and past the hero of said game, and into another platform and world entirely.

Lestrade saw only the briefest glint of Sherlock inside the pod, and was just about to follow him through, when a small woman and a robust looking man came hurtling out of Platform 3.

“Wait! Sherlock! You can’t let that virus escape our game!” Molly cried desperately as she rushed past Lestrade and very nearly knocked him to the floor in the process.

“Oh I’m so sorry sir! I just – it’s just that – I have to catch that man!”

Lestrade shot her a panicked look, “And why on Earth would you have to catch Sherlock?”

Molly – who had just been about to set off running once more – paused in her tracks, “You know Sherlock?”

“Of course I do,” Lestrade replied jovially, “Why he’s my game’s bad guy! I’m Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade, or just Lestrade for short.”

“Bad guy…” Molly whispered under her breath, as Mike cut in, “the name’s Mike Stamford – Sherlock and I go way back. But he just escaped my game whilst I was caught up in a battle.”

“Yes, it was awful,” Molly agreed, “Mike came rushing to me as soon as he had regenerated saying we had a problem.” It was at this point that Molly both remembered her manners and the matter at hand, “Oh, I’m Molly Hooper of _Medical Mission_ and it’s VERY important that we stop your friend before it’s too late!”

Lestrade faltered as he suddenly took in Molly’s complexion, “You are…high-definition, it’s – it’s _amazing_ ,” he gasped.

Molly blushed at the compliment but tried her best to keep things on topic, “Yes, well, thank you. But there are much more pressing matters at hand!”

“R-right you are!” Lestrade added, feeling somewhat embarrassed for his outburst (especially in front of Stamford), “You said we have to find him before it’s too late – before _what’s_ too late? Our game’s already about to be made Out of Order!”

Molly’s face creased in sympathy for Lestrade for a moment before she replied, “Well it’ll be too late for all of us if we don’t get that Cy-Bug.”

“Cy-Bug?” Lestrade questioned.

“Yes, a Cy-Bug. They’re our game’s ‘bad guy’ – they’re like a virus, but they have no form of sophisticated programming,” Molly replied.

Mike then continued on in a threatening tone, “All they know is to eat, kill, multiply and without some kind of beacon or bright signal in the sky to stop them, they’ll consume whatever game it is they’ve just entered. And it won’t stop there – they’ll attack _every_ game in this arcade until there’s nothing left and poor Mrs. Hudson is put out of business for good!”

Lestrade stared at the two of them in total horror before collecting himself and assuming a newfound steely resolve, “Well then, we’ve no time to lose! Let’s get in there after Sherlock and stop that Cy-Bug!” He began to move forward but Molly put out a hand to stop him.

“No, Lestrade, you can’t go in there. It’s not safe for you; if you die in there, you won’t regenerate.”

To this, Lestrade shot Molly an incredulous expression before adding, “Well neither will you.”

Molly simply rolled her eyes and hurried on ahead; Lestrade turned to Mike and shot him a questioning glance, “What was that all about?”

Mike smiled sadly at the spot Molly had just occupied, “It’s not her fault Lestrade. Molly was coded to be completely selfless; she’ll give up her life before she lets another come into harm’s way. It’s the reason why she has to work in the morgue and not the battlefield – otherwise she’d jump in front of every enemy that came our way and we’d never finish a level! That’s why she’s so ridiculously giving, and also the reason why she gave Sherlock that heart he wanted without a second thought.”

“…Sherlock got a _heart_?” Lestrade asked, realisation dawning on him.

“Yeah, that’s the whole reason he came to our game in the first place.”

Lestrade nodded in understanding, and moved to follow Molly, “If that’s the case, then this whole mess is my fault, Mike. If I had just _intervened_ when things were getting out of hand and treated him more like how he deserves to be treated for a change then none of this would have happened. I have to go after him.”

Mike simply waved him off and said, “Of course. Keep her safe Lestrade, I can’t leave our game or they’ll shut us down too. We can survive without a bonus level, but not without the main narrative!”

“Right you are!” Lestrade called back and hurried along after Molly, and Sherlock.

 

*****

Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he was destined to spend the rest of his life flying around aimlessly until the Cy-Bug attacking him finally killed him however, the ambulance-pod collided head on with a tree, knocking the virus from its hold around his head. This activated the ejector-seats and Sherlock found himself and the Cy-Bug being catapulted up into the sky of an entirely unknown world; it was a vast and grand looking land with a lot of forest surrounding a quaint little village – in the distance he could see a large and menacing looking mountain. Just as Sherlock had finished taking in this sight though, he went crashing back down to the earth through the trees around him – and the Cy-Bug went flying into a nearby swamp with a resounding ‘ _plop!_ ’ much to his relief.

After he had hit the ground rather ungracefully, but thankfully still intact, Sherlock realised where he was and groaned disapprovingly, “Ugh not _Soldier’s Duty_ – this game is full of unnecessary physical exercise, untrusting civilians, self-righteous soldiers-turned-protectors, and an enchanted Hound for a bad guy.”

He then got up and began to brush debris off his expensive looking clothes as he continued to grumble to himself, “The game is just one big race amongst soldiers to reach the mountain top’s finish line, activate a full moon and deter the villainous Hound for another day; how tiresome, no real genius needed.”

Sherlock readjusted his jacket, “I have to get out of here before I get roped into some mad assault course or worse–” Suddenly, he stopped ranting and raised a hand to his jacket pocket; realising that his heart was missing. Instantly he began looking around for it like some kind of possessed magpie that had lost its favourite trinket.

“Oh great, this is just what I need. _Where_ is it?” He grumbled, until a glint of something bright red caught his attention just at of the corner of his eye, “Aha! There!”

But as Sherlock ran to grab it, a short blonde man in an oatmeal jumper, black jacket, and jeans picked it up triumphantly and grinned to himself, “A heart! Perfect, if this isn’t interesting enough to gain me entry then I don’t know what is!”

“Hey, that’s mine,” Sherlock snarled as he approached the man, who immediately froze and tensed up upon hearing another’s voice – _an untrusting civilian, then_.

The man turned around and glared at him through deep blue eyes, “Who are you and what do you want?” He pushed back his shoulders and squared up his chin in an attempt to look more deadly – _classic soldier traits too, interesting_. It wasn’t often (in fact, Sherlock didn’t think it had _ever_ happened before) that someone caught the attention of Sherlock Holmes; and, whilst he was mostly tempted to _throttle_ the man for taking his heart, he felt compelled to find more out about this unlikely thief.

And so Sherlock smirked knowingly and began, “The name’s Hinder-Them Holmes, and don’t you worry about why I’m here. All you have to do is return that heart to me.”

The blonde positively scowled at him, “My name is John Watson, and I have absolutely no intention of doing that. I found this fair and square – and besides, why would I give it to some _stranger_ who has probably just gone turbo and arrived here to mess up our game! We don’t want a repeat of _Reichenbach Racers_ over here ok, so if you’re anything like Moriarty I suggest you leave _right now_!”

“I have _not_ gone turbo and I am _nothing_ like Moriarty was,” Sherlock snapped, and then hastened to add, “my pod just crashed in here after I had a brief issue with a Cy-Bug, which is no longer of anyone’s concern.”

John seemed to shrink a little at this, but still appeared weary as he clutched at the heart in one hand and kept a loose fist in the other.

Sherlock snorted, “Look, I know you’re not going to harm me. Firstly, you’re not even a soldier – although you quite obviously want to be, so you have no weapons.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but it was too late – Sherlock was off on one of his deductions, “You also won’t harm me out of principal – you have a strong moral code; you don’t want to be a part of your game for the fame and glory – no, you just want to help the people in your village. In fact, I don’t entirely understand why you aren’t in the game already since you’re quite obviously the perfect candidate to go dashing up a mountain to stop a Hound; you’re loyal, brave, inquisitive, strong, good-hearted, and fast on your feet. But for some reason you cannot enter…which is why you felt the need to find something extraordinary – in this case my heart – to bribe your way into your game’s induction round, which will then lead to a day of official public gameplay.”

John stared at him mouth agape, “That. Was amazing,” he gasped.

Sherlock paused, before asking hesitantly, “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was; extraordinary. It was _quite_ extraordinary.”

Sherlock was just about to say more when John’s entire form seemed to surge and the man flinched momentarily as his right leg disappeared completely before reappearing again in a flash of rearranging pixels.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, “a glitch, of course – that explains it. No-one wants a glitched character in their game for fear of being shut down, no matter how perfect a protector they’d be.”

John winced at the truthfulness of Sherlock’s statement before the offence of what had been said set in, “well I’ll have you know that I am a more than capable soldier, despite the flaws in my coding.”

For a moment Sherlock considered that statement, “as true as that may be John, I’m afraid I can’t let you keep that heart.”

“Holmes I–”

“It’s Sherlock.”

“What?”

“My name – call me Sherlock. I only use Holmes when I’m being the bad guy.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, wondering why a bad guy would ever want to be known by a name that wasn’t the one they were infamous for. He may have said something else to Sherlock at this point, if he hadn’t heard the distant noise of his game’s claxon sounding – indicating the start of the induction round.

“Well, _Sherlock_ , I understand that you might need this and while I’m sorry and all for what I’m about to do – a good guy needs this more than you right now, I hope you understand.” And with that John Watson turned around and sprinted faster than Sherlock had ever seen another character move before; he hopped from path to path and tree to tree with the occasional tell-tale flash of glitchy pixels until he was quite out of Sherlock’s sight.

 

*****

The crowds of villagers had gathered in the small stadium that was home to _Soldier’s Duty_ ’s miniature assault course which consisted of three levels; in the first – target practice, the second – a timed race track, and in the third – a small mass of injured civilians that had gotten stranded in the woods and needed healing. Once the potential soldiers had passed through this course, they were allowed access to the mountain, and the finish line that would activate the full moon and stop the mountain’s ever-lurking Hound from descending upon the town’s folk. The soldier who held the position at the top of the leader boards for the fastest time became the village’s leader – or “King” as Jim had crowned himself; it was a very desirable position to be in indeed.

The gamers were currently gathering and offering up their treasures and gold that they had found in the surrounding forests to use as payment to enter the game. First a small black haired Irish man made his way to the front and placed a large gold piece inside the offerings pot, he then made his way over to a podium that stood at the side of the starting line.

“Ladies and gentlemen! It is I, your current King, Jim – and honeys you should _see_ me in a crown!”

Cheers of support erupted from the crowd as an angry looking servant wearing a soldier’s uniform, who went by the name of Moran and sported a large scar across his left eye, emerged baring Jim’s crown and placed it upon his head.

“Thank you all for your warm welcome as always! And thank you to today’s avatars, who have offered themselves up to be the soldiers that will contend for a place to protect you from the horrid Hound in tomorrow’s public games!”

The crowd ate up his every word – roaring with applause when he mentioned their protectors, and hissing and booing at even the slightest mention of the Hound that threatened them on a nightly basis.

“The arcade is closed for the evening – which means that it’s time to test all of our entrants on their suitability. If they get through this preliminary round, then they will spend their day tomorrow trying to protect all of _you_!” He boomed proudly, and the masses cheered along with him.

As Jim spoke, each of the potential soldiers had been throwing their objects into the pot – Sherlock arrived on the scene just in time to hear the commentator announce “IRENE ADLER!” as one of the contenders. Following on from her was John, who had just thrown Sherlock’s heart into the pot.

Suddenly “JOHN WATSON!” was announced by the game’s commentator and his name lit up on the player board.

“That _idiot_!” Sherlock barked, before his attention was drawn away from John and to Jim, who had just hopped down from his pedestal.

“What!? The glitch!?” He shrieked, “How on earth did he enter? …Security!”

A group of strong looking soldiers bustled out from backstage, Moran included.

“Yes sir. King Jim, sir.” They chanted in response.

“Catch John Watson and make sure he _does not_ get into this race!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

At this John quickly dashed away, cutting through the competitors and crowds of civilians. The soldiers tried to race after him but he was too agile for them – their prized camouflage and weapons slowed them down significantly and John was naturally fast thanks to his coding (when his leg wasn’t glitching, that is).

Thinking on his feet, Moran pulled out a sniper rifle and began to search in the distance for John. Sherlock saw this however, and panicked immediately for John’s safety – without John he’d never get his heart back, and he’d always remain the bag guy.

Moran proclaimed, “AHA!” as he spotted John in the distance, just on the edge of the forest and made to pull his gun’s trigger when–

“ _WAIT!_ ”

The sniper rifle fired off, but thanks to Sherlock’s desperate shout it went in entirely the wrong direction, hitting the large leader board instead. This gave John just enough time to disappear into the trees and relevant safety.

“What are you doing!?” Jim shrieked from atop his pedestal.

Moran and the other soldiers stared on in horror as the smashed screen creaked and shards abruptly fell off from their position on the board. They collided with parts of the stage which then began to collapse, much to the alarm of the audience situated there. And so villagers screaming with shock began to evacuate the stadium for fear of being hit by the now-collapsing and frankly lethal stadium.

“Ok folks, calm down! Everything’s all right,” King Jim called out to his loyal subjects below, “We’ll repair all of the damage! Don’t worry; we will have our race before the arcade opens!”

Sherlock was just about to follow in John’s footsteps when Jim yelled, “And catch that perpetrator and have him brought to my castle!” and so, with a sigh, he accepted his fate as several burly soldiers grabbed him by the arms and dragged him away.

 

*****

As Sherlock was thrown onto his knees on the red carpet belonging to King Jim’s castle (god knows how Sherlock didn’t spot that pink monstrosity when he first arrived – although, in fairness, he was being hurtled a fair distance into the air at the time), Jim came waltzing into the room and peered at his intruder carefully.

“Why, Hinder-Them Holmes – whatever are you doing here?”

Sherlock looked Jim up and down once – he was wearing an extravagant black robe that was accented by countless pink swirls and patterns.

“Yeah, and who on earth are you – the guy who decorated this place? I see you’re a fan of pink.”

Jim faltered for a moment, “It’s salmon, _salmon_ – that’s _obviously_ salmon,” he grumbled, glancing down at his outfit. “And I’m _King_ Jim of course; the current ruler of this land, and the last time I checked, you were _not_ one of my loyal subjects. So _what_ are you doing here?”

Sherlock sighed, “Look, Jim, this is all a big misunderstanding. My escape pod crashed into this game. Just let me out of here, I’ll get my heart, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Your _heart_ ,” spluttered Jim, clearly amused, “bad guys don’t get _hearts_.”

“Well this one _did_.” Sherlock spat back, “I earned it over in _Medical Mission_.”

King Jim stared at him wide-eyed, “You _game jumped_!? Holmes, you’re not going turbo are you?”

“What? No, no, no–”

“Because if you think you can come in here, to my Kingdom, and take over my game you’ve got another thing coming!” Jim roared in outrage.

“Easy!” Sherlock yelled back, silencing what he was certain would have become a long rant from the small King, “it’s not my fault one of your subjects couldn’t keep their hands off my heart.”

“Couldn’t keep their…Who…The _glitch_ – so _that’s_ how he bought his way into the game!” Jim mumbled to himself.

“Yes, and I need that back,” Sherlock intervened.

Jim stopped his mumbling to look up at Sherlock, “Oh well, I’m afraid it’s quite gone; nothing but code now.” His voice suddenly became more menacing, “and it _will stay that way_ until someone hits the button and triggers the moon at the end of the race.”

“Listen,” Sherlock began, “I’m not leaving without my heart.”

Jim cocked an eyebrow at him and replied condescendingly, “Yes. You are.” He then turned away and began to make his way out of the room, “get rid of him _boysss_ ,” he drawled, “I’ve got a glitch to deal with thanks to Holmes.”

Sherlock could do nothing but watch as King Jim left the room chirping, “Goodbye Hinder-Them Holmes, it _has not_ been a pleasure!”

As soon as Jim was out of earshot however, Sherlock pushed himself away from the guards either side of him and sprinted as quickly as he could out of the room.

“Hey get back here!!” the guards yelled – but it was too late; Sherlock was gone.

 

*****

When Sherlock next spotted John, it was in the middle of a slight opening in the forest – John was sitting packing a medical kit, and several game members had surrounded him. Namely, Irene Adler – one of the more formidable game characters within _Soldier’s Duty_ ; she always found a way to bribe her way into the game, whether she had treasure to offer or not.

“Oh, hello everyone,” John greeted pleasantly.

Irene wasted no time in pleasantries however, “John. You have to back out of the game, or I’ll be _more_ than happy to force you out myself,” before adding sultrily, “and we all know how _forceful_ I can be.”

“Uhh, yeah see here’s the thing – no I don’t? I’ve paid my fees and my name is on the board. So yeah, I’ll definitely be taking part.” 

“King Jim _ordered_ you _not_ to race John; and a soldier should never disobey an order, if they know what’s good for them,” she said with a glint in her eye. She then continued on seductively, “I know _countless_ ways to make competition _exciting_ John,” before harshly adding, “and a glitch is _not_ one of them – glitches _cannot_ compete.”

John rolled his eyes and joked, “I’m not a glitch Irene – I just have ‘Pixlexia’ ok; it’s all very serious.” When Irene didn’t respond, John attempted to explain his play-on-words, “You know, _DYSlexia,_ _PIXlexia_? An inability to read my pixel’s coding properly? Get it?”

But Irene apparently wasn’t in the mood for joking and she loomed over John; prodding him in the chest threateningly as she went along, “You _are_ a glitch John – and it’s only a matter of time before you glitch in game and hurt us _all_.”

John’s pixels had been getting all the more distorted as Irene spoke and he became more agitated, and now he was glitching consistently as she jabbed him in the chest, “You think you can keep the people of our village safe John? Get.” _Jab._ “Real.” _Jab._

By this point Irene was right in John’s face, and the blonde was clearly distressed, “You’re meant to be a healer and yet you can’t even heal your own glitched leg – don’t think we don’t notice you limping around when no-one’s looking.”

Sherlock was briefly taken aback – he had seen the evident problem with John’s leg, but when he had ran from both Sherlock and the soldiers earlier that day he had been one of the fastest characters Sherlock had ever seen move. Perhaps even faster than Sonic.

He was cut from his ponderings however as Irene continued her assault; this time she shoved at John, “John Watson – you’re an accident.” _Shove._ “Waiting.” _Shove._ “To.” _Shove._ “Happen.” _Shove._

On the final shove, John’s leg glitched and disappeared entirely just long enough for him to lose balance and go flying to the ground. Everyone around him laughed and John hung his head in shame as he pushed himself back up. It was at this point that Sherlock chose to make his entry.

“Hey, you little imbeciles – get out of here before I cause some _real_ trouble for you all!”

The group turned around and one member screamed, “It’s Hinder-Them Holmes – he’s a bad guy; quick let’s get out of here!” and before Sherlock could speak another word, they had all ran off into the trees shouting about how he would surely ‘murder them if they weren’t careful’.

John got up slowly and glared behind him at Sherlock as he snapped, “What are you looking at?”

“You’re welcome, you ungrateful little thief,” Sherlock retorted.

“I’m not a _thief_ ,” John said, “I was going to return your heart to you…somehow. Anyway – why don’t you just go back to your own game and win another one.”

“I can’t just _go back to my own game and win another one_ because I didn’t _earn_ it in my game; I got it from _Medical Mission_!” Sherlock snarled.

“ _Medical Mission_?” John asked. “That sounds like a great game – I bet the characters working in that are fantastic doctors,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’d be surprised. Why would you care if they were good doctors anyway – don’t you want to oh-so-desperately be a _soldier_?” Sherlock added pedantically.

John shifted uncomfortably, “Well, I _am_ a healer too. I wouldn’t mind being both; if I could.”

Just as he was about to knock John back with another biting comment, Irene’s words came flooding back into his head. _“You’re meant to be a healer and yet you can’t even heal your own glitched leg – don’t think we don’t notice you limping around when no-one’s looking.”_ And all of a sudden Sherlock realised why John would like their medical expertise under his belt.

“Why can’t you heal?”

“…What?”

“That player, Irene, she said you couldn’t heal.”

John exhaled heavily, “it’s not that I _can’t_ heal, it’s just that I can’t tell _what_ needs healing anymore – it’s my glitch.”

Sherlock’s face gave nothing away; his expression was the perfect blanket of emotionless, “I see.”

John glanced up at Sherlock briefly before moving to a patch of grass to sit on and continuing, “That and my leg _isn’t_ healable because I can’t just change my code; I have no idea why Irene felt the need to add _that_ in. Although saying that, that isn’t the worst thing she’s ever said to me – most of the time she likes to remind me that I’m ‘just a mistake.’ And that I ‘wasn’t supposed to exist’.”

“John–” Sherlock began, but stopped himself. John looked up from where he had been picking at the green grass before him and levelled Sherlock’s gaze.

“Yes Sherlock?”

Sherlock gulped but pressed on, “I know it might sound a little hypocritical – coming from me – but why are you so desperate to win this game when the characters here treat you the way they do? Why don’t you just leave?”

John laughed slightly to disperse some of the tension that had built up between them, “Not so much ‘hypocritical’ coming from you since you _did_ leave your game – _although I know you intend to return_ ,” John added hastily when Sherlock made to talk again, “However, to answer your question – I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to; glitches can’t leave their games. It’s one of the joys of being me.”

For a long while, Sherlock didn’t say anything; he just watched John watching him. John – this man who had spent his entire life being told that he shouldn’t be around, and who was still determined to prove himself. At least Sherlock _had_ some kind of a place in his game, and could travel around in his off time to be around people who didn’t constantly turn their nose up at him. For John there was no escape – and yet he always managed to stay upbeat about things and patiently wait around for his chance to substantiate himself.

John, who had been watching Sherlock carefully and wondering just what _exactly_ was going on in that big brain of his, decided to press on when it became clear that Sherlock had nothing to say to him – he clearly wasn’t one for sob stories.

“Look – you’re incredibly good at picking thing apart, at _deducing_ things – right? That’s what you do in your game, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded, “yes – not that anyone notices these things.”

“Oh?” John pushed, realising that he was getting Sherlock to open up to him.

“That’s why I left – to get this heart and to prove myself to them all once and for all. They don’t believe in my intelligence, they just think it’s a part of my in-game _coding_ and that I’m useless without it. According to them, being the bad guy and coming up with every single one of their cases comes with no merit,” Sherlock informed John, his voice laced with vehemence.

“Well…I think you’re brilliant,” John added with a tone of finality.

The impassive mask that was Sherlock’s face broke momentarily as he stared at John in complete shock before collecting himself a few seconds later, “You do realise you say those things aloud?”

“I do.”

“…Right, well. Yes. That’s all good and well but you’re not a part of my game now then are you?”

John gave Sherlock a tender smile, “No I’m not. But you’re a part of mine right now and if you help me I can send you back to your game with what you need. Just come with me on this race, help me identify the injuries in the civilian-healing part of the game and then I can get you your heart back as soon as I win. I promise.”

Sherlock looked unconvinced at John’s promise, “And what if I die out there?”

John laughed at this, “You won’t die around me – I know I’m a protector! I can feel it in my code!”

When Sherlock didn’t immediately say anything, John tried to get a definitive answer out of him, “So what do you say? Deal…?”

Sherlock remained quiet and after a while John thought the man would simply up-and-leave, but eventually Sherlock’s shoulders sagged and he breathed a heavy sigh, “Alright fine. Deal.”

John let go of the breath he didn’t realise he had been holding and jumped up from his patch of grass in triumph, “Fantastic!” he exclaimed as he shook Sherlock’s hand with vigour, “Let me just go and sort a few things then!”

And with that he ran off into the woods, glitching occasionally as he went.

“You really need to get that glitch under control you know!” Sherlock called out.

“I know!” John shouted back as he glitched about a metre forward to the left.

“…Well, this is going to be interesting,” Sherlock said in exasperation.

 

*****

Molly and Lestrade had been searching the woods for what seemed like hours carrying out polite and casual conversation – chock full of compliments and adoring comments from Lestrade – when Molly finally asked Lestrade, “So why did Sherlock leave your game?”

Lestrade sighed sadly, “He was fed up of being the bad guy I guess – I just never thought he’d go turbo.”

“Go ‘turbo’? I’ve heard that term recently – didn’t someone from _Reichenbach Racers_ go turbo not long ago?”

“Ah, yes, a racer called Moriarty did. I forgot that you guys weren’t plugged in that long ago. Turbo was a term that came about a long time ago – back when the arcade first opened. _Turbo Time_ was by far _the_ most popular game in the arcade, and the lead player Turbo loved the attention. So when _Road Blasters_ got plugged in and stole Turbo’s thunder he was jealous – so jealous that he _abandoned_ his game and tried to take over the new one. Turbo ended up putting both games and himself out of order, for good. Moriarty left _Reichenbach Racers_ a few years ago and completely ruined both his game and _Black Lotus_. That’s why I have to get Sherlock back – so that doesn’t happen to us.”

Molly nodded in understanding at his story, “But why was Sherlock so fed up? Didn’t he get along with everyone? He seems like a hard person to get along with – but surely there isn’t _that_ much hostility surrounding him!”

“You’d be surprised,” Lestrade said, “Sherlock is always very sharp-tongued, and people don’t really like that about him. Pair that with his being the game’s bad guy and it gets all too easy to victimise him.”

“Victimise? Sherlock Holmes doesn’t seem like the kind of person to be _victimised_.” Molly replied disbelievingly.

“I thought so too, but the more I’ve thought about it since I left our game, the more obvious to me it is that that _is_ what we’ve been doing to poor Sherlock all along. And it wasn’t right of me, as the game’s hero, to not stand up for him and be a friend to him every once in a while.”

Molly nodded understandingly as Lestrade continued, “I mean, members of our team openly call him a ‘freak’ and a ‘psychopath’ to his face on a daily basis.”

“That’s not right at all,” Molly cut in disapprovingly.

“No, it’s not,” Lestrade agreed sadly, “and I’ve never spoken up about it before…But as soon as I get him back _all_ of that is going to change. Sherlock Holmes will know exactly how much we value him being around.”

As Lestrade finished his speech, Molly took a hold of his hand and smiled at him warmly – and Lestrade very nearly fainted on the spot. In fact, he would have if at that very moment Molly hadn’t stared ahead and exclaimed, “look a clearing is just up ahead! Maybe the Cy-Bug headed through there!”

The two of them promptly went running through the opening only to hear the yelling of guards in the distance.

“Hey! Who is that over there? We don’t want any more intruders here today!”

Without a second thought Lestrade pushed Molly back into the forest, “Run Molly!” he hissed, “you have to find that Cy-Bug and get Sherlock back!”

“But Lestrade–” she began, only to be cut off.

“There’s no time – they know someone’s here. Let _me_ be the selfless one for a change; you’re the only one here who can recognise a Cy-Bug and tell others how to stop a virus from spreading.”

Molly stared at him with eyes as wide as a small woodland creature that had just spotted a bird of prey in the distance, before she dived forwards and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Thank you Lestrade – I’ll find the Cy-Bug and Sherlock, I promise!” She told him before running back into the forest.

As Molly disappeared through the trees, Lestrade moved out into clear sight with his hands held up.

“My name’s Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade and I’m from the game of the same name – I’m just looking for my friend Hinder-Them Holmes; I saw him come in here.”

The guards, one of which was Moran, surged forward and grabbed him. They then began marching toward Jim’s castle just up ahead, “Holmes? We’ve had _quite_ enough of him for today. Look, I’ll contact King Jim but odds are you’re gonna have to wait around until after tonight’s race before I can release you.”

“Release me?” Lestrade questioned.

“Yes, from King Jim’s dungeon,” Moran answered as he pushed Lestrade through a bright pink doorway and shoved him just in front of the rest of the guards.

“Dungeon? Really now, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Lestrade reasoned.

Moran shot him an unconvinced look, as he reached out and pulled a lever on the wall, “I disagree.”

Before Lestrade could say another word, the floor beneath him opened up and he went falling into the dungeon cell lurking below.

 

*****

When John came back out of the forest, he was holding something behind his back.

“What do you have behind your back?” Sherlock asked, suddenly feeling worried for his safety once more. If John turned on him now, that would be it.

“Oh don’t look so worried. It’s a surprise – now close your eyes.”

“Really John? I’m not 5 years old.”

“I said _close them_ ,” John demanded.

Sherlock groaned but nevertheless did as John asked, he felt John place a bag in his hands (which he held onto) and then put something inside it.

“Alright, you can open your eyes,” John said sounding satisfied.

Sherlock peered down into the backpack in his hands and pulled out the object inside.

 “…What on earth is _this_?” Sherlock asked amusedly when he pulled out a small (presumably human) skull.

“It’s for you!” John chirped back cheerily, “we have a lot of ‘creepy’ looking things like that in the more dangerous parts of the forest; they’re all for decoration but I figured you’d like it.”

“Oh you did, did you?”

“Yeah you seemed like the macabre type,” John chuckled, “And you can keep it in that bag so it doesn’t get damaged while we travel around today.”

Sherlock glanced down at the skull, and saw that John had etched something onto the back of it.

_To Sherlock: You’re MY Hero_

“I found it for you, and I know it’s not a heart or anything – but at least it’s something, just in case we don’t win. Not that there’s even a remote chance that we won’t,” John added.

Sherlock simply stared at the skull in his hand – never before had he been given a gift, let alone something as thoughtful as this. He felt almost overwhelmed, more-so even than when he had first been handed that heart. It was fantastic, John was fantastic.

“You’re smiling – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before!” John suddenly pointed out.

Sherlock placed the skull back into the bag and put it on his back, feeling only slightly embarrassed that he’d been caught smiling like an idiot. Since it was John that caught him though, he didn’t mind all too much. He then replied mock-sulkily, “Yes, well I _am_ capable of feeling emotion you know.”

“Ah, so you bad guys _aren’t_ all psychopaths and sociopaths then?” John joked.

“Funnily enough, no, we aren’t. That was just a myth invented by developers so gamers wouldn’t worry about ‘hurting our feelings’ all the time when they defeated us,” Sherlock added wittily.

The two of them burst into fits of (rather unmanly) giggles at this, and Sherlock smiled down at his gift once more before smiling back at John – who was positively beaming at him.

It was then that it occurred to Sherlock that he hadn’t been waiting his whole life for recognition, or appreciation, or even a heart – he had been waiting his whole life for John Watson.

John Watson _was_ his heart.

 

“Well then,” Sherlock began, “I think we’ve got ourselves a race to win.”

“You betcha!” John grinned and turned on his heels, he walked forward for about two steps before pausing and holding his hand up, “Actually! I got so caught up in finding that present that I completely forgot my backpack with all of my supplies – I’ll be back in a moment!” and with that he went trotting back into the forest once more whilst Sherlock just laughed to himself in amusement.

 

*****

As Sherlock stood waiting for John to re-emerge from the forest once more, he heard someone calling out from behind him.

“Sherlock! There you are! Hello!”

Sherlock turned around to see King Jim standing and waving at him happily. “You,” he snarled.

“I come alone – unarmed,” Jim added to no avail, Sherlock was storming at him and his eyes were practically screaming bloody murder.

“What do you want, Jim,” Sherlock sneered, grabbing the King by his collar and dragging him forward forcefully. There was only about an inch between their faces as Sherlock glared daggers at Jim.

“I’m just h-here to talk!” Jim protested.

“I’m not interested in _anything_ you have to say,” Sherlock snapped.

“Well,” Jim began, looking far too cool for someone who was about to be throttled, “Are you interested in _this_?” he asked, pulling out Sherlock’s heart from his pocket.

“…My heart?” Sherlock breathed, pushing Jim back and releasing him to get a better look at it, “how did you…?”

“That doesn’t matter!” Jim insisted, “It’s yours! Go ahead, take it.”

Jim held the heart out to Sherlock and the genius carefully took it from his grasp. It was his heart alright; bright red, cold to the touch, and entirely beautiful.

“All I ask is that you hear me out,” Jim added in a pleading tone.

Sherlock eyed the Irishman suspiciously, “About what?”

Jim paused momentarily, “Sherlock…Do you know what the hardest part about being King is? _Doing the right thing_ ; no matter what.”

“Get to the point.” Sherlock threatened.

Jim visibly restrained a sneer, “The point being, Sherlock dear, is that I _need_ your help. As sad as it is, John Watson _cannot_ be allowed to take part in our game.”

“ _WHY_ are you people so against him helping you!?” Sherlock roared.

“I’m not!” insisted Jim, “I’m trying to _protect_ John; if he wins that race, he’ll be added to the race roster and then gamers will be able to choose him as their avatar…and when they see him _glitching_ and just _being himself_ they’ll think our game is broken! We’ll be put out of order for good, all of my subjects will be homeless, but John…he won’t be able to escape because he’s a glitch! When the plug is pulled – he’ll die.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, “You don’t know that will happen. The gamers could love him.” He believed that, John was very easy to love. Any idiot could see that.

But then Jim planted the seed in his head, “…and if they don’t?” and suddenly Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to want to take that chance. Just the thought of gamers hating John – of John dying because _he_ helped him to enter a game full-time as a glitch – well it was too much; it made his insides feel like they were freezing over. Sherlock didn’t want to be a bad guy, not anymore, and being responsible for John’s death would be the worst thing he could _ever_ do.

Sherlock sat down on John’s quaint little patch of grass in defeat as Jim continued, “I know it’s tough, but heroes have to make the tough choices, don’t they? He can’t compete today Sherlock; and he won’t listen to me…So can I count on you to talk a _little_ sense into him…?”

Sherlock just nodded slightly.

“Very good,” Jim added, “I’ll give you two some time alone.” And with that he made his way back into the forest and left Sherlock sitting quietly.

Sherlock put the heart into his pocket, took off his backpack and got the skull out; he grazed his fingers lightly over John’s etched words.

“… _Hero,_ ” he whispered lightly, “is that what I am?”

Just then he heard rustling the bushes and he hurriedly shoved the skull back into the bag as out popped John, “Ok, I’m ready let’s go!”

“John, wait. I don’t think you should do this.”

John quirked a confused eyebrow at him, “Uh hello? Is Sherlock in there? I’d like to speak to him please?”

Sherlock scrubbed at his face with his unoccupied hand, “Look what I’m saying is you _can’t_ be a soldier.”

“…What?” John asked quietly, his pixels briefly glitching out of place, “Why would you…?” But then he spotted the heart in Sherlock’s pocket, sticking out ever so slightly.

“Wait a minute–” John grabbed the heart from his pocket.

“No John!”

“Where did you get this?” John asked, his eyes pleading.

Sherlock sighed, “Look, I’ll be honest with you – I’ve been talking to King Jim.”

“King Jim!?” John gasped as his face became a picture of betrayal, “You sold me out?”

“No, you don’t understand,” Sherlock began.

“Oh I understand. I understand plenty, traitor! As if I ever believed that you could care about someone, you don’t care about anything but yourself – do you?” John snapped and tossed the heart to the dirt at Sherlock’s feet.

“I _do_ and I’m not a traitor, listen if you get into the game and people see you glitching that’ll be it, game over–”

“ _YOU’RE A RAT AND A MACHINE_.” John bellowed, before sniffing, “And I don’t need you. I can win the game on my own.”

John made to storm off and, as Sherlock bent down and quickly scooped up the heart before returning it to his pocket, he realised that the only way he could get John to listen was by totally destroying the man’s confidence in himself, and so he snapped coldly.

“You think you could win without me? _Really_?”

John paused with his back turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock positively _ached_ from what he was having to do, but he knew it was the only way to save John, “if you enter that game. People _will die_ and it will be _your fault_ John, understand that.”

John’s pixels surged violently and he glitched almost a foot to the right – this was Sherlock’s golden opportunity.

“Look at you. It’s _pathetic_ – you can’t even walk away without glitching; if you got into that game you’d make a mockery of yourself.”

John clenched his fist and looked over his shoulder to Sherlock, who held his eye contact with cold and uncaring eyes, “You’d be better off alone John. Alone is what protects people.”

“ _No,_ ” John yelled, “ _Heroes_ are what protect people Sherlock!”

“Heroes don’t exist, and if they did _you and I_ wouldn’t be one of them,” Sherlock growled.

At this, John closed his eyes slowly and his face collapsed in hurt, “You really are a bad guy, _Holmes_.” He then turned away once more and ran back into the forest. Sherlock collapsed back onto the floor and held his head between his hands.

It was time to leave.

 

*****

Back at _Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade_ things were awfully quiet, Sherlock pushed open the door to the Head Quarters and peered inside.

“Hello? Is anybody there? Lestrade? Anderson?”

Only Sally was still left there.

Sally snorted as he approached and she noticed the heart shining in his pocket – it stood out boldly within the dark little room, “Wow, you actually went and did it,” she said sarcastically.

“…Sally? Where is everyone?”

“They’re gone. After Lestrade went to find _you_ and then didn’t come back, everyone panicked and abandoned ship.”

“But- but I’m here now,” Sherlock insisted.

“It’s too late Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is pulling our plug in the morning – I hope you’re happy.” She then got up and made to leave.

“Wait – Sally, this isn’t what I wanted.”

“And what did you want, Sherlock?”

“…I don’t know, I just- I was just tired of living alone with everyone hating me.”

Sally stared at him pointedly, “Well now you can live alone, with no-one around _to_ hate you,” and with that she left.

Sherlock moved back to the balcony of the Head Quarters that overlooked their game, and stared out to their game’s screen which was currently covered by an Out of Order sign. He pulled the heart out of his pocket and stared down at it hatefully before tossing it as far as he could.

The heart flew through the pixelated sky and hit the screen of _Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade_ with a loud ‘ _clunk!’_ and just as Sherlock began to turn away, the sign that had been covering the screen moved ever so slightly to reveal the world beyond their game – the world of Mrs. Hudson’s Baker Street Arcade.

Parallel to his game sat _Soldier’s Duty_ and Sherlock stopped to pull the skull out from his backpack to stare at it regretfully one more time. The words ‘ _You’re MY Hero’_ stood out to him painfully, and he looked up to avoid reading them any longer.

When he looked up however, he noticed the side art on John’s arcade game. There, drawn in bold and vibrant colours, was John Watson and realisation dawned upon Sherlock.

“He’s no glitch.”

 

*****

When Sherlock burst back into the world of _Soldier’s Duty_ he almost collided directly with Molly Hooper, who for her credit, only looked _slightly_ like she’d just been hit by a bus when she’d recovered from her shock.

“Oh gosh Sherlock, you have to help – Lestrade’s been put into one of King Jim’s dungeons.”

“Let’s get him,” Sherlock murmured darkly as he stormed towards the castle in the distance.

 

*****

Moran had been sitting quietly minding his own business when Sherlock came crashing into the castle’s entrance closely followed by a very startled looking Molly.

Sherlock wasted absolutely no time in grabbing Moran by the neck and holding him up to meet his gaze, “ _explain something to me_ ,” he snarled, “if John was never meant to exist, then why is his face painted all over the side of your game console?”

Moran tried to squirm free but Sherlock only tightened his grip on his neck, “The _truth_ , or I won’t hesitate in playing the part of the bad guy.” Moran’s eyes widened in horror and he gasped, “Ok ok! John was a player – but Jim tried to erase his code from the game!”

“Why would he do that?” Sherlock questioned.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock shook Moran helplessly like a rag doll and he cried, “No really! I don’t know, King Jim locked away all of our memories so I literally cannot remember a thing!”

Sherlock could read people like a book, and it didn’t _really_ didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to tell that this guy was telling the truth.

“Alright, and where’s Lestrade?”

“In that dungeon down there,” Moran answered quickly as he pointed to the trap door that Lestrade had fell down earlier. Sherlock peered to it and then to the set of levers on the wall.

“Molly pull that first lever,” he instructed.

“Are you sure it’s the right one?” Molly asked hesitantly.

“Positive,” Sherlock reassured, “it’s the most recently used one – all of the others have a thin layer of dust forming over them whereas that one has a set of male fingerprints, roughly matching Mr. Soldier’s hand size here."

“Ok then,” Molly answered, and she pulled the lever. The door opened and she bent down to peer inside, “Lestrade are you in there?”

“ _I am!_ ” A voice called back up.

“It’s not a deep drop; we’ll get him out in a moment. First things first, Molly pull the second lever.”

Molly stood up and did as instructed, when another door across the room opened Sherlock moved towards it, and realisation dawned upon Moran.

“No please Holmes, I was just following orders. Have some _heart_!” He screeched as Sherlock held him over the drop.

Sherlock shot him a smile that in no way reached his eyes, “Bad guys don’t have those – remember?” and released his hold on the soldier.

The trap door promptly closed and cut out the sound of Moran’s scream as he dropped, Sherlock then went over to one of the castle’s expensive curtains, broke off the tie around it and tossed it down the trap door to Lestrade.

“Lestrade, grab onto that piece of rope and we’ll pull you up!” He called, and as the Detective Inspector did so, he and Molly hauled him out of his dungeon.

Lestrade brushed himself off and scowled at Sherlock, “Oh so _now_ you show up – after I’ve been locked up here for hours, ignored, and treated like dirt just for simply carrying out my duty and trying to clean up your mess!”

Sherlock sighed, “I know what it’s like Lestrade, don’t worry – there are more pressing matters at hand here.”

But Lestrade wasn’t having any of it, “ _’know what it’s like’_ do you?” he snorted, “come _on_ Sherlock, I was treated like some kind of _criminal_ for just doing what I had to do!”

It was at this point that Molly lightly tapped his elbow, and Lestrade broke out of his rant to make eye contact with her. One pointed look from Molly and he suddenly realised what he had just said.

“…Oh – wait, you do know, don’t you?” He asked Sherlock, who merely inclined his head in response.

“That doesn’t matter right now. We have to help John win that race.”

“John?” Lestrade asked, “John Watson?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, “how do you know his name?”

“I heard Moran talking earlier – King Jim captured him and locked him up in the cell next to mine. No trap doors involved for him however; they were too worried he’d glitch out if they didn’t take him in there themselves.”

Sherlock wasted absolutely no time in registering what Lestrade had said, pulling down the third lever, and tossing the impromptu-rope down to John.

“John, it’s Sherlock. John please grab the rope.”

When he received no response he attempted to explain himself, “Look was wrong about what I said earlier. King Jim has been lying to you. You _can_ win this game, you were _never_ meant to be a glitch in the first place!”

He felt someone grab onto the rope and he, Lestrade, and Molly all began to pull. When John emerged from the dark square in the ground, the first thing he said was, “You’re an idiot, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled at him, glad to have his sarcastic John back, “I know,” he said, “I know.”

 

*****

The group wasted no time in racing to the village’s stadium, where John immediately started the first round by grabbing a gun and shooting the targets – bulls-eye or head-on every time. He then began his sprint through the timed racetrack for the second round as Sherlock and the others moved to the edge of the forest ready to begin the final part of the induction round before they reached the mountain.

Sherlock watched on proudly the entire time – John made his way through the course with ease; when he focused he really had no trouble at all controlling his glitch.

As John approached the edge of the forest and the group began moving onwards, Molly fidgeted uncomfortably but said nothing. Lestrade glanced at her with concern, “Molly are you–” he began when a large yelp was heard not far off in the distance.

“That’ll be the injured civilian!” John yelled excitedly as he sped off through the forest, ready to start the third round and followed closely on his tail by Sherlock.

Lestrade decided to ask Molly what was wrong once they reached the civilian as the two of them focused on keeping up with the pair ahead of them.

 

*****

As it happens, it didn’t take Sherlock and John long to find the person in trouble – it was Irene Adler, who was clutching her leg in agony.

“Wait a minute – Irene, aren’t you competing?” John asked.

“Yes, and I, ah, hurt my leg during this round,” she complained.

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously, “surely they would have a civilian planted for you though?”

“No,” Irene cut in, “Jim removed John’s civilian so that he couldn’t pass this level. He didn’t even realise that John’s healing abilities were lacking anyway because of his glitch.”

“So can you still get through this round if you heal her, John?”

“Yes, I think so. I just have to help heal anyone in need,” John supplied as he knelt down and inspected her leg – he looked completely lost.

“Well then you’d better get healing,” Sherlock said, “it’s her right kneecap – it’s dislocated.”

John looked at Irene’s leg with a newfound understanding once Sherlock had spoken, and twisted her leg in an efficient, doctorly way; a tell-tale pop informed the two that they had been successful and they grinned at one another maniacally.

Irene glanced down at her leg, “It still hurts,” she groaned to which John dug around in his backpack and pulled out a small bottle of medicine in response.

“Here. Take this,” he handed the bottle to Irene, “it’ll help you with the pain.”

Irene smiled faintly at him and hung her head in shame, “I’m sorry I ever doubted you John. You _are_ a good healer, and a more than capable soldier.”

John smiled back at her, “Thank you Irene. But I wouldn’t be either of those things without Sherlock’s help.”

He then stood up and slung his backpack back over his shoulders, “Now if you’d excuse me, I have a race to win, a village to protect and a moon to activate.”

Just as they were about to leave however, Molly and Lestrade burst through the trees.

“Wow, you guys run fast!” Lestrade panted. But Molly wasted no time in her warning, “Look I’ve been meaning to mention this for a while now! But the virus – Sherlock you brought a Cy-Bug back with you and it’s been multiplying somewhere within this game. I can feel it!”

“Don’t be stupid Molly,” Sherlock scoffed, “That thing fell into one of the swamps when I arrived and has long since been dead. Believe me-” At that very moment, a large swarm of Cy-Bugs erupted from the trees a short distance from them and the sky darkened ominously, “Or don’t. Not believing me works too.”

The group stood in momentary horror before Lestrade grabbed Irene, hauled her on his back and yelled, “ _EVERYBODY RUN!_ There’s an escape route up ahead right by the finish line that will take us back to Game Central Station!”

Everyone ran as quickly as they possibly could up the mountain-side; and could only look on in horror as the swarms of Cy-Bugs latched onto and destroyed everything they saw. Villagers could be seen piling out of the game from every exit; luckily they were all safe and unharmed, the same could not be said for their home however.

Eventually, they reached a fork in the road – one path led to their escape and the other led to the finish line.

“I have to finish the race,” John said.

“I’ll come with you,” Sherlock insisted – John looked like he wanted to object but ultimately decided not to waste time arguing.

“Alright,” Lestrade answered, “we’ll head to the exit to help people escape. Hurry up.”

The group parted ways and John and Sherlock made incredible time – before long Sherlock could see the finish line up ahead.

“John there’s the finish!”

“I know,” John answered, before he stopped dead in his tracks, “Wait Sherlock – over there. It’s King Jim!”

Sure enough, not far off in the distance, King Jim stood desperately trying to escape a Cy-Bug.

“Leave him John, he’s not worth it,” Sherlock said.

“No Sherlock – I have to, he’s as much a part of this village as I am, and I have to protect him.”

“Let’s go then,” Sherlock insisted.

“I can run in there and have him out safely in no time at all; it’ll be safer for us both if you stay here.”

Sherlock looked like he’d rather do anything than leave John, but had to give up to common sense in the end, “Ok fine, I’ll run up ahead and wait for you – just hurry up John, please.”

The two made eye contact for a moment, and exchanged a look full of promises, before John turned and sprinted off to help Jim. Meanwhile Sherlock ran off to the finish line.

 

*****

John ran as quickly as he could and reached Jim before the Cy-Bug had got him – but only just.

“Jim quick! I’ll help you escape, you have to come with me!”

Jim spun round on his heels and glared at John, “I would _never_ accept help off a _glitch_ like you – if you pass that finish line then this game is _over_!”

“It’s over if you don’t leave now Jim, come on,” John begged, “If we don’t go now then neither of us will make it out alive.”

“Oh one of us _will_ be making it out alive, Johnny boy, it just won’t be _YOU_ ,” he yelled, as he leapt forward and began to attack John – throwing punches, and trying to throttle John.

Whilst panicking John’s control over his glitch began to slip and his form began distorting itself, Jim positively growled at John when it began to affect his form too. In place of the grand black-and-pink (I mean _salmon)_ coloured robe, was a jet-black Westwood racer's suit. His face was no longer plump and accented by rosy-red cheeks – instead it was drawn and ghostly pale. And his eyes, _his eyes_ , had seemingly ceased to hold any kind of life inside of them – the eyes that were staring at John now were dark and entirely devoid of life; they were _dead_.

John’s eyes widened in horror as he recognised Jim’s form, “It’s you,” he gasped.

 

*****

All around the forest there were speakers broadcasting the leader’s audio, as well as a small screen situated by the finish line showing the latest action – so everyone remaining in the game could hear the dialogue between King Jim and John at that moment, and Sherlock could see exactly what was happening.

Currently, Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the screen in horror as John revealed exactly who Jim really was to everyone.

_“It’s you,” John gasped, “Moriarty.”_

 

*****

Moriarty cackled as John announced this to the world, “Of course it’s me, did you think anyone _but_ the greatest racer ever could top the score boards in this game?” Moriarty’s expression changed to one of bloody murder at this point as he screamed, “and do you think I recoded this world to let you and some spindly little psychopath take it away from me!?”

Something inside John snapped at this and he punched Moriarty square in the jaw, sending him flying off and onto his back.

“There is nothing even _remotely_ psychopathic about Sherlock Holmes, you pathetic waste of space.”

John was just about to surge forward to _really_ give Moriarty a piece of his mind when two Cy-Bugs swooped down and grabbed them both. Moriarty could do nothing but scream and shout as his carted him away, but John focused all of his energy into doing the one thing that Moriarty had wanted him to do all along.

_Come on John – GLITCH!_

And he did – John Watson glitched like never before and teleported himself entirely to the other side of the forest; the side where Sherlock was waiting for him by the finish line.

 

*****

Sherlock had witnessed all of this transpiring on the screen however, and was already sprinting to find where John had landed.

“John! John! Where are you, are you ok?” He called out through the trees.

John heard him faintly in the distance and began to dash towards the sound, “I’m over here Sherlock! Jim was actually Moriarty – he attacked me when I tried to help and a Cy-Bug got him!”

“I know!” Sherlock called back, his voice was startlingly close now and in fact – yes – John could see him in the distance, and the finishing line just a short distance from that!

Coincidentally, the two finally met up once again at the fork in the road where they had previously split up from the others.

“Thank god you’re ok, John,” Sherlock breathed in relief.

“No-one is _quite_ ok yet, Sherlock – I have to complete the game and get across that finish li–” John stopped what he was saying and stared in fear as a swarm of Cy-Bugs descended on the finish line and began to destroy it.

“No – what am I going to do now!” John cried, “I have to cross the finish line!”

“There _is_ no finish line,” Sherlock argued, “come on – we have to get out of here, it’s not safe.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and ran off up the rainbow road towards the exit with him; he could see Molly and Lestrade directing flocks of characters out and into safety.

“Sherlock – it’s not going to work,” John protested.

“We have to try,” Sherlock yelled as he ran through the gate leading to their safety. But it was of no use – their hands broke apart violently as John was left stranded on the other side.

Sherlock reached back through desperately and tried to pull John through by his arms, the barrier resisting him constantly, “Stop Sherlock, _stop_ – it’s no use!” John begged, until Sherlock slumped in defeat and let go of his arms.

John placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and rubbed tiny circles there with his thumb, “It’s ok Sherlock. Really.” Sherlock simply reached up and placed his hand over John’s.

Lestrade and Molly appeared at this point. “Alright that’s everyone – time to destroy this exit and get out of here,” Molly said.

Sherlock stared up at John with the eyes of a broken man – John could barely stand to see that much pain in his eyes, “Just go. Go without me,” he pleaded. John couldn’t live with himself if he failed to protect the one man who had just _accepted_ him for who he is. And then, in an attempt to wipe that desperate look off of his face, and because Sherlock Holmes was the only person who had ever had faith in him, and because it might be his last ever chance to do it, and _also_ because he just simply _wanted_ to, John leaned down and kissed Sherlock.

It wasn’t a long kiss, or a passionate kiss, and yet it conveyed every word that John and Sherlock wanted to say to one another in that moment, but couldn’t. Every ‘I’m glad I met you’, every ‘I wish I’d known you 30 years earlier’, and every ‘you helped me believe in myself and feel whole again’ that neither could voice, was said in this kiss.

Sherlock timidly pulled John forward so that he could cup his face with one hand and deepen the kiss ever so slightly. Sherlock then slid one hand up John’s back to hold him more closely – it was probably the most tender gesture that Sherlock had ever made. Meanwhile John took this as an invitation to gently run his hands through Sherlock’s curls.

They stayed like this for just a moment longer, as two halves of a whole coming together. But the knowledge that they were rapidly running out of time was ever-present in both of their minds, and so eventually, much to his dismay, John knew he had to pull away from Sherlock’s hold. _He had to let him go._

As John pulled away however, Sherlock heard Molly and Lestrade having a discussion in the background.

“But what about this game?” Lestrade asked.

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Molly replied as she pulled a detonator from _Medical Mission_ out of her pocket, “without a beacon of light there’s _no_ way to stop these monsters.”

Upon hearing this, Sherlock jumped up abruptly – very nearly head-butting John in the process.

“That’s it!” He exclaimed, before demanding “Stay with Lestrade,” to John. He then ran off as quickly as he could in the direction of the finish line.

“Where are you going Sherlock?” Lestrade called after him.

“I’ve got some Cy-Bugs to hinder!” He yelled back.

 

*****

When Sherlock reached the point where a very decrepit finish line now stood, he kept running until he reached the edge of the mountain-side – and that’s where he saw it, the large white pressure pad type button that sent a signal through to activate the moon that deterred the Hound, it was barely 10 feet away from him!

But just as Sherlock went to hit the button, a large Cy-Bug swooped down and carried him up and up and up until they reached the very top of the mountain.

The Cy-Bug had an iron grip on Sherlock’s arms so, try as he might, he couldn’t break away no matter how much he flailed. Then, almost as if it had suddenly grown bored, the monstrous Cy-Bug tossed Sherlock to the ground like a ragdoll.

When Sherlock looked up he was greeted with the sight of a Moriarty-Cy-Bug hybrid; the top half was that of the pale faced Irishman’s, who was now wearing his trademark Westwood racer’s jacket, and the bottom half was that of an almost wasp-like Cy-Bug. It was horrific.

“Oh I’m not done with _you_ yet Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty cried as he violently slashed at Sherlock with his now mutated claw-like hands and Sherlock scrambled frantically to avoid being struck, “because of you Sherlock; I’m now the most powerful virus in the arcade! I can take over any game I want – I should thank you…buuuut it would be more fun to _kill you_!” He screeched and lunged at Sherlock, who leapt up faster than a Jack-in-the-Box.

Moriarty began jabbing at Sherlock – who narrowly missed his stinger each time, occasionally Sherlock would be just a fraction of a second too late to move and Moriarty’s stinger would cut him open. Sherlock tried his best to fight back, but when you’re a man who’s used to using his mind to outwit others in a fight with some kind of murderous lobster-wasp-hybrid nightmare that’s twice your size it can be a little hard.

Nevertheless Sherlock pushed on, constantly reminding himself that he was doing this for John – _John only and ever for John._

“I’ll save you John. I’ll do this for you,” Sherlock yelled, as he pushed Moriarty’s stinger away for what must have been the twentieth time. To this Moriarty burst into mocking laughter, “Oh _poor Johnny Boy_ – I imagine he’s in quite the speck of trouble right now.” Sherlock snarled and leapt forward onto Moriarty, hitting him violently in the face, “don’t you _dare_ speak about John,” he roared.

Moriarty seethed at Sherlock – _no one_ hit him, “you shouldn’t have done that Sherlock,” he warned, “because now I’m not just going to _kill_ you, I’m going to _burn_ that precious little heart that you worked so hard to earn _right out of you_.”

The psychopathic monster then he grabbed Sherlock so that he couldn’t fight back any longer and flew high into the dark skies of _Soldier’s Duty_.

It was up there, suspended miles above the earth, that Sherlock saw it – countless Cy-Bugs approaching his friends. Molly, Lestrade and John all backed away from the mass, but whereas Lestrade and Molly were able to pass through the gate, John remained stranded on the other side.

“John!” Sherlock cried helplessly, if John was killed here it would be _his_ fault – this was _his_ mess.

“Oh would you look at that, it’s your _little friend_ ,” Moriarty cooed as he tore Sherlock’s head back, “let’s watch him die together, shall we?”

“No!” Sherlock protested. He couldn’t lose John, not now.

“Ahaha – it’s game over for both of you,” Moriarty mocked as Sherlock stared down at the white button below him – the button that if he hit, would save John, John who meant everything to him now, _John who was his heart_.

“No, just for me,” Sherlock replied, and he tore his way out of Moriarty’s grasps and went hurtling towards the earth below.

John Watson was a courageous man. He was kind and gentle and loving, but above all else he was full of courage. He was never scared when he was in the line of danger – even as he stood facing a small army of Cy-Bugs John did not feel fear. In fact, danger only ever really spurred him on all the more from the huge spurts of adrenaline that it gave him; which is what made him such a perfect Soldier. But as John Watson saw Sherlock falling to the earth, he felt fear.

He felt it cling to his insides and _squeeze_ like it was trying to crush the life out of him, he felt it turn his organs to stone and freeze his heart, he felt it creep upon him and breath eerily down the back of his neck, ‘ _If you die outside of your own game, you don’t regenerate. That’s it. Game Over.’_ And he had never been more afraid in his life.

But John Watson was not so afraid as to be petrified, and after he watched all of this unfold he screamed, “ _SHERLOCK_!” at the top of his lungs before glitching his way to where Sherlock was falling; because as well as being a born Soldier, John was a born healer. And he was going to do everything within his power to save Sherlock.

As Sherlock fell, he reached behind into his backpack and pulled out John’s skull – he thought he would be sad, to know that his life was ending. But if this was what it took to prove himself good, then he was happy to take it.

And so as he fell, he recited his bad-guy mantra one last time, “I’m bad and that’s good, I will never be good and that’s not bad.”

He stared down at the skull in his hands, and John’s beautiful, wonderful message ‘ _You’re MY Hero_ ’, and he smiled gladly.

“There’s no one I’d rather be than me.”

And then he hit the earth.

 _Soldier’s Duty_ ’s sky parted gloriously as the moon emerged and shone down on the world before it like a magnificent beacon. Every Cy-Bug in the land was instantly drawn to it; even Moriarty himself who could be heard screaming, “no – not the light – don’t go into the light!” Still his Cy-Bug-counterpart couldn’t resist, and his protests were soon silenced.

But that didn’t matter right now.

Not to John Watson at least – who had stormed through the remainder of the finish line and went straight to the large white button that had just saved them all (but not without the help of the hero who was lying upon it).

John’s heart stopped at the sight before him – Sherlock was splayed across the floor barely breathing; he was bleeding all over from the impact, most notably from the top of his head where a large stream of blood was gradually leaking through his hair, down his porcelain face, and onto the cold rock floor below.

_“If you die outside of your own game, you don’t regenerate. That’s it. Game over.”_

A strangled cry made its way out of John’s throat as he stumbled forward – just when he’d thought Sherlock had solved their problems and could save them all, just when he thought he could _be with Sherlock_ , it had all been torn away from him again.

John had told himself he could let Sherlock go, let the man live on without him – but it was only ok when things were that way around. A world without Sherlock, a world where he was alone again, wasn’t a world worth being in. Not anymore.

“Sherlock! Oh, god, Sherlock!” John wept as he approached Sherlock’s lifeless body and the skull that sat cracked beside him, and spread his hands over his bleeding body, “Heal – please god, heal; just this once, don’t let me be a useless glitch.”

John had never cursed his glitch more in his life – he focused his mind and tried his very best to control himself _just_ long enough to identify each of Sherlock’s injuries. But it was no good, whenever he managed to locate one injury, there were countless others bleeding out and being left unattended. John was beginning to panic; he was going to lose Sherlock, and he had never hated himself more.

“You were the only one who ever believed I could do _this_ ,” he said weakly, gesturing to his hands to indicate his healing, “and now I’m letting you down.”

John screamed in frustration and collapsed weeping in a heap on Sherlock’s chest, desperately trying to hear for a heartbeat over his own helpless sobs. He gathered the lifeless man up into his arms and kissed the top of his head before whispering brokenly, almost like a prayer, “Please Sherlock. Don’t die, I love you.”

Fortunately for John Watson, luck was finally on his side – and when he had passed through the crooked and destroyed looking finish line, he had officially won the game which triggered a system restart within _Soldier's Duty_.

A blinding white light surrounded John and Sherlock as the game set about repairing all of the code that Moriarty had rearranged and damaged over the years. The light encased the two of them – healing John of his glitch, and Sherlock of his fatal injuries – before it burst out away from the two of them and gradually repaired every inch of the destroyed land. It was beautiful.

But not quite as beautiful, in the opinion of John Watson, as the sight of Sherlock Holmes opening his eyes again to gaze up at him with a look of naught but complete total and utter adoration, and whispering, “I love you too,” much to John’s relief.

Crowds of villagers came rushing back into the game – Irene with her now healed leg, and Moran and the other head Soldiers with their restored memories, and they were all chanting “All hail John Watson, the rightful King and protector of our land!”

Sherlock surveyed John properly at this point; he was now dressed in a much more extravagant looking cloak – one fit for a King by all means.

John was meant to be the King in this game, not Moriarty – that’s why “Jim” had erased everyone’s memory of John from their coding and tried to destroy John’s entirely. Sherlock couldn’t think of anything more pathetic or desperate for a person to do.

But he wasn’t going to waste his time thinking about that now – because there was John, alive and wonderful and ridiculously _regal_ right before his eyes.

“Wow, so this is the real you,” Sherlock chuckled from beneath him, “the King of the land?”

John laughed, “What are you, Sherlock, crazy? I’m still the same old me, you idiot,” and with that he glitched out of his outfit and up onto his feet, “the code may _say_ I have to dress and act like a King, but I know who I really am! I’m just your regular guy who wants to protect the people he loves. And if you thought I’d give up my glitching – you’re entirely wrong; it’s like the greatest super power ever!”

At this, Moran stepped forward cautiously, “Uh, excuse me for asking – but without a King, who’s going to lead us?”

John laughed even louder at this, “Me of course – I’ll still lead you all, but in a much more democratic and fair way I think, kind of like the Prime Minister or a President or something. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

Moran looked back at his fellow Soldiers who nodded in approval and John beamed at them all; Sherlock thought his chest might burst with pride at the sight of this.

Suddenly, Molly cut in, “Sherlock, Lestrade – it’s time to go. The arcade is about to open.”

Sherlock got up from where he’d been sitting on the floor, and gathered up his skull and backpack as Lestrade wandered over to join Molly where the now-repaired Ambulance-Pod was waiting.

John turned to Sherlock and hugged him fiercely – holding him tight to his chest, “You know you could just stay here,” he offered, “you could stay in your own wing of the castle where no-one would ever complain about you or treat you badly ever again. I would tell you how much I love you every day. You could be happy.”

Sherlock pulled back and smiled at John, “I’m already happy,” he said sincerely, “I’ve got the best friend in the world who would do anything for me; I’m not alone anymore. And besides – I’ve got a job to do too. It might not be as grand as being ‘leader of the land’ but it’s still my duty.”

John smiled sadly but nodded in understanding as Lestrade shouted, “Sherlock – are you coming?”

Sherlock grinned mischievously and yelled, “Just a minute!” before swooping down and capturing John’s lips in a powerful kiss. John almost lost his footing at the force of it all, but Sherlock was already two steps ahead of him – holding his back and leaning in as John fell back. The kiss was passionate and loving and full of all the other overflowing emotions that the two had experienced on their journey together. Sherlock licked slowly into John’s mouth and took his time tasting and savouring all of the flavours and smells that were just purely _John_. The kiss was fantastic, and beyond interesting – as was anything to do with John. John smiled into the kiss and cheekily bit at Sherlock’s bottom lip as the dark-haired man began to pull away.

Sherlock smiled back down at John, the lines at his blue-grey eyes crinkling with joy. He then pressed one more small, gentle kiss to John’s lips and promised, “I’ll see you later, John,” before turning to leave.

Satisfied with their send-off and the possibilities lurking within Sherlock’s goodbye, John happily called, “Goodbye Sherlock – this is to be continued!” after him as he boarded the pod and the group set off back to Game Central Station.

 

*****

That morning, Mrs. Hudson peeled back rest of the half-unstuck Out of Order sign to find _Let’s-Solve-It Lestrade_ in 100% working condition, and she had cooed happily “Hurray, they’re all back!” when she saw them prancing around the screen before adding “and remember – I’m not your maintenance woman!” as an afterthought.

 

*****

“You’ll all be glad to hear,” Sherlock told the members of the Bad-Anon meeting who cheered encouragingly at his update, “that I’m taking life ‘one game at a time’ now.”

“Of course the job hasn’t changed _but_ newsflash! The Yarders have actually started being nice to me now; which got me thinking about being nice to some other players for a change. And so I offered to let some of the _Black Lotus_ gang come into our game every once in a while to take part in some bonus levels I’ve been working on. I’m telling you all, we haven’t been this popular in _years_ – it’s insane; apparently we’re ‘retro’, so we’re ‘old but cool’.”

“Oh and guess who was _best man_ at Lestrade and Molly’s wedding? That’s right, yours truly. It was a very elegant affair.”

“But I gotta say, my favourite part of the day – is when The Yarders toss me off the top of their Head Quarters after defeating me because I get a perfect view of John in his game. The gamers really love him – glitch and all – and he’s the perfect leader and protector of his people. Just like I knew he’d be.”

“Oh, and as it turns out, I don’t really need a shiny red heart to feel whole after all, because John gave me his heart and makes me feel complete.”

“And if John Watson loves me – how bad can I be?”

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it guys, I really hope you all enjoyed it and thanks ever so much for taking the time to read this!
> 
> There isn't really any trivia for this fic - I just tried to make as many references to/to follow as closely as possible to the Wreck-It Ralph narrative whilst keeping everything in-character and truthful to Sherlock. I'm hoping I found a good common-ground between the two without offending people from either fandom along the way haha!
> 
> As always any kudos/comments/feedback you could give would be wildly appreciated!


End file.
